


a real hero

by blueinkedbones



Series: a real hero [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, John has a crazy theory, M/M, Minor Character Death, Stilinski Family Feels, Teen Wolf Pack Charity Project, a different take on those 2x12 scenes, and then it's more than a theory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:58:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueinkedbones/pseuds/blueinkedbones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Stilinski knows his son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. hero

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inyron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inyron/gifts).



> Prompt: "I would love a Sheriff POV story about the deteriorating relationship between him and Stiles. Sterek, or hints of Sterek are a plus, but not necessary. You can resolve (or not resolve) it however you want."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Stilinski knows his son.

John Stilinski knows his son. Knows his bullshit face, his blustering and filibustering, and the little giveaway tics: the palm to the back of his head, the lip licking, the too-innocent expression, too-wide eyes and shrug. And the worst one, the one that has John’s blood pressure rocketing: “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t even try that, that last one, eyes downcast like he can’t even afford the energy it takes to fake it right now, but he tries its placebo.

“It’s okay. Dad? It’s okay—” he says, but John knows his kid, and he’s shaking, cheek tender and blue-purple and lip split, and he’s holding himself wrong. He sounds desperate to convince John, maybe even himself, that it’s fine; John doesn’t need to be a sheriff to see that, and he doesn’t need to be a father to know he’s not about to let a kid decide that something like this is okay.

He grabs Stiles’ jaw, turns his head slightly so the kid’s scraped cheek meets the light, the dried blood on his lip thrown into sharp relief. “Who did it?” John grits out, taking his hand off his son and stepping back to take him in, to fully document the crime. There’s acid in his gut and blood in his mouth, he’s seeing red and purple and black and blue and _Stiles_.

“It’s okay, it was just a couple kids from the other team.” Stiles shakes his head, and John is tired of this, of the lying, he wants the truth, he wants to know what his kid is mixed up in, why he’s hurt, wants to yell, _Cut the crap and tell me!_ But he lets Stiles lie, he stands there and lets Stiles lie, for now at least, he humors him. “Y’know, they were pissed about losing, I was—I was mouthin’ off, you know? Next thing I know—”

And then there’s fury-laced adrenaline shooting through John and he needs answers, he needs a culprit, he needs someone to pay.

“Who was it.”

“Dad, I don’t know. I didn’t even see them, really.”

“I want descriptions.”

“Dad, come on. It’s not even that bad!” Compared to what? He’s shaking, he’s holding himself wrong, if that’s not that bad John wants to know what’s going on that’s worse—

“I’m calling that school," he rages. "I am calling them and I will personally go down there, and I’m gonna pistol-whip these little bastards!”

“Dad! I just—” He doesn’t want his old man poking around, finding out he’s lying again. “I said it was okay!” The kid’s eyes are darting back and forth, pleading, _Drop it, just drop it!_

John just looks at him, looks at his kid refusing to let his father fix this.

Julie would've known what to do here. Julie would've... She would've dropped it and just comforted him, whatever he needed, and she’d have dealt with the rest later.

So he forgoes the interrogation, he leaves the rest of the questions behind his teeth, and he grabs his son to him—careful, of course—and bites down on the angry hiss threatening to escape when his kid, his fucking enigma kid who won’t open up about what he ate for breakfast, his kid wound tighter than a spring for months, his kid who insists he’s fine, he’s finer than fine, he’s _supafine_ , starts crying silently against his shoulder. It takes everything John has to just hold him, not to grab his gun and find someone responsible and make them pay. But he rocks Stiles slightly, and traps the fury behind his teeth, and closes his eyes.

He’ll figure this out. He’ll rain hell down on anyone who even _thinks_ about—But not right now. Not right now.

When Stiles steps away, John spots the edge of a wide dark evil-looking bruise peeking out from under his jersey, and every instinct he has goes bloodthirsty. But he’s not a teenager anymore, not the guy who goes after his girlfriend’s asshole ex with a bat and a couple of friends, so he stays put, stays calm, stays away from the drink and the salt and the fat and the carbs, waits for Stiles to go upstairs and lie down, and makes a couple of calls.

Deb’s oldest goes to Bayside High. Josh. He’s a good kid, but John’s seen him hauled in for a couple of DUIs, one bust for possession, a little plastic baggie of pot in the glove box of his dad’s old Ranger. John can’t picture him getting into anything with anybody, and what little he knows of the team seems to match that, but he’ll cross out Stiles’ story just in case he’s is actually telling him the truth for once before he marks it as bullshit and goes looking for another answer.

It’s a short conversation. The Bayside Beavers had dinner and watched _The Dark Knight_ at her place. Only Kal Evans ducked out- said he had to babysit his little sister while his parents went to a wedding out of town. A quick call to Jenny Evans confirms it. Whoever hurt Stiles, it wasn’t the other team.

John sighs, rubs his eyes with his palm, and puts down the phone.

Why would Stiles lie? A couple of reasons come to mind immediately. He got hurt doing something he doesn’t want his old man to know about, he promised someone he wouldn’t tell, or he’s afraid of someone and doesn’t want his old man sticking his head in, making it worse. Chances are this has something to do with the Whittemore stunt. Which means Scott is involved.

Jackson Whittemore died tonight, right out there on the field. That can’t be a coincidence. But what’s the connection? What do they all have in common?

Lacrosse, John realizes. They’re all really, really good at lacrosse. Whittemore’s been MVP for years. Scott—Well, Scott hasn’t been this good for long. Asthma and a general lack of coordination kept him on the bench with Stiles up until a couple of months ago. But suddenly he’s co-captain, and tonight, even Stiles found his groove and destroyed the other team.

How?

 

Play it back, play it back.

Okay, Stiles is on the bench with Scott. The Lahey kid is just throwing himself at his own teammates, if John remembers right. What’s that about? The lineup dwindles. Stiles is on the field. Oh, it’s bad at first. But then he gets the ball. And it is amazing. John isn’t one of those helicopter parents who needs his kid to be everything he never was, but he’s damn proud anyway. Up until Stiles disappeared from the field, only to show up hours later covered in bruises and barely keeping a brave face. Somethings been building for a long time, John thinks, and it came to a head at that game.

Where was Whittemore? Did Whittemore score at all? John hadn’t had a reason to look for him specifically, but he kept an eye on the whole team, and he can’t remember Jackson’s performance at all. For an MVP and co-captain, that’s gotta mean something.

The game ends 10-9. Stiles wins, and John’s got enough pride to fill the entire stadium. Everyone’s cheering, Melissa is beaming, hell, even Lydia Martin is excited. But then the lights go out. And then they’re back on, and there’s Whittemore lying spread eagle on the field, and no one’s cheering anymore.

Melissa goes from mom to medic, Lydia goes from Stiles’ cheerleader to Whittemore’s girl, and John straddles the roles of father and sheriff simultaneously as he tries to make sense of it all and locate his son in the commotion.

Where the hell did he go?

The way John sees it, there are only two possibilities.

1) Stiles saw Whittemore go down and went somewhere, fast enough for everyone to miss him, or  
2) Someone took him.

Let’s say it was the first one, and he took off when Whittemore hit the ground. Where would he go? It had to be somewhere close; he left his Jeep in the parking lot. Somewhere in town, then, near the high school. Those bruises took some time to bloom so dark, the blood on his lip is already dry and it’s barely morning, so that beating must have happened almost immediately after the game. So where was he? And with who?

Or say it was the second: Someone took him. It had to be someone who was at the game. Great, John thinks, that narrows it down to about half of Beacon Hills. Well, he can pretty certainly rule out Jackson Whittemore, Lydia Martin, Melissa, and himself. That’s a start, at least. He’s pretty certain the Bayside Beavers have nothing to do with this, but Deb’s kid Josh is first line, so she must have been there too, paying attention to her kid and his team. She’d know where they went after the loss, after Jackson went down. Unless she and Jenny are in cahoots. Do people still say _in cahoots_? It sounds like gibberish, now that John’s thinking about it.

When John brings him a sandwich and a drink, Stiles is in his room, trying to find a comfortable angle to sleep on. He missed dinner, which would have been something full of carbs and red meat and sodium, maybe with a side of curly fries. To celebrate, you know. And they can still do that. There’s no reason they can’t do that. But right now John isn’t leaving until he’s figured this out, which means he has to make do with the contents of the fridge and freezer. He makes waffle grilled cheese; Stiles used to love it, and it’s about time John stopped avoiding everything that reminds him of Julie. It’s about time he actually fixed the growing divide between him and his kid instead of burying his head in the sand.

Last night was a major wake-up call, and John isn’t about to forget that.

Did Stiles sleep in his Jeep? No, John guesses he didn’t sleep at all, by the looks of the dark shadows under his eyes, (neither did his father, but that doesn’t matter right now. If Stiles was actually “okay” he’d be nagging his dad to eat something—and not something John would ever reach for on his own, either, but something high in fiber and low in fat, salt, and, nine times out of ten, flavor—and sleep at least a couple of hours, but Stiles isn’t okay, so food, drink and sleep are off the table until John has something more to go on. He’s the sheriff; he knows evidence doesn’t stick around in mint condition, waiting to be collected at your leisure) and as far as John can tell, Stiles’ Jeep is still in the high school parking lot. Which means Stiles walked home alone at roughly midnight to one in the morning from wherever the hell his attacker left him. Unless, of course, they were kind enough to give him a ride home. Or did they just beat him behind the school and leave him lying on the pavement all night? No, John did a full sweep of the high school and the surrounding grounds, even exploring the woods with flashlights and dogs and a team from the next county over. The station has been unusually short-staffed since the massacre last week, so Sheriff Kent has been lending out some of his own until John can find replacements. It still seems impossible that one disturbed kid could do that much damage, but John has long come to accept that strange animal-like attacks are part and parcel of the crime in this county. Still, there’s something about the way it keeps cropping up these days in criminal cases, starting with Laura Hale and ending with the mass murder of some of the best men and women he’s known. And John knows there haven’t been wolves in California for at least fifty years, but the calls about howling in the night come in almost daily now, and it’s not just the same four pranksters, either. If there are wolves in Beacon County, it’s not just one. It’s an infestation.

 

It’s when Lydia Martin comes to visit Stiles later that day that the pieces start falling into place, and John's craziest theory grows legs.

 

Later, John appears in Stiles’ doorway as the kid puts his phone down on the desk. Is he ignoring Scott now? John can’t think of anyone else offhand who Stiles texts; he’s not even sure Derek Hale has a phone.

“She left, huh?”

Stiles shrugs. “Yeah.” He looks down again. John nods a couple times before taking a stab in the dark. “So, is there…” Stiles swivels his head to look at him. “Uh… anything there?”

“No. No, she’s in love with someone else.” He sucks on his bruised lower lip as John nods again.

He leaves the doorway, takes a seat by Stiles’ side. He half-hates noticing the way Stiles cradles his arms around himself. (Damn body language expert at the station had insisted he’d thank her later when his new keen observational skills cracked a case. Same body language expert went and had a kid who lies like it’s an Olympic sport and he’s going for gold. Same body language expert got to watch them both watch her die of brain cancer, and no doubt knew he was lying every damn time he said, “You’re gonna be okay. This’ll work, I know it will.”) The other half of him knows little things like that might be the only honesty he’ll get out of his kid these days.

There’s a lot swirling around John’s brain, so there’s a couple of false starts before he says, “Listen. I know getting beaten up, and with what happened to Jackson, has got you pretty shaken up. But be happy about one thing.”

Stiles lifts his head, looks up at his dad. John’s got Stiles’ full attention. This is the time to say it. To say, _I’ve cracked it. I know what you’ve been hiding from me, and I’m gonna take care of it. I’m gonna take care of you, be the father I should’ve been after your mom died. And the first step is a long, no-bullshit talk with Derek Hale._

But he can’t say that. Not yet. Not until he’s seen the proof with his own two eyes. If he doesn’t have the facts in front of him, Stiles will probably laugh in his face. He’s had reasons for lying to his father until now, and John doubts he’ll be honest unless he doesn’t have a choice.

So he doesn’t start the talk he knows he desperately needs to have with his kid, and he doesn’t talk about Derek Hale, or Jackson Whittemore, or Gerard Argent. He dodges.

“The game,” John says. He nods again, again, convincing himself. “You were amazing.”

Stiles rolls his eyes, huffs out a breath and a sarcastic grin, and turns away. Crap. John’s lost him. Even as Stiles looks back at him—“Thanks, Dad”—John knows he’s writing his old man off.

“No, I mean it,” he says. He does. He’s got bigger things on his mind than a lacrosse game but that doesn’t mean he isn’t proud, because he is. He’s damn proud. And maybe Stiles needs this, needs to hear what his father can’t say directly however John _can_ say it. “Okay, it—It was pretty much over. And then you got the ball. And you started running. You scored… and the tide just turned. And you scored again…” He smiles. “And again. You weren’t just the MVP of the game.” And here he pauses, because he has to get this right. He has to make Stiles see what he sees. More than the game, more than the bruises, more than some sore losers snapping at a smart-ass. He knows the reason his kid’s been lying to him for months, and as crazy as it sounds, it fits too perfectly for John to look the other way. So he means it when he says, “You were a hero.”

But Stiles shakes his head, loses even the sarcastic smile. “I’m not a hero, Dad.” And John wants to groan out loud, because being subtle was never his strong suit, and he’d like nothing more than to just come out and say it. Of course Stiles doesn’t see it how his dad sees it. All he sees is how he got beaten down. How he couldn’t save Jackson, or fix any of it. But John knows what Stiles has been through, what he’s still going through, and that he keeps going. And that’s the most anyone can ask from anybody.

“You were last night,” John says, and he pats Stiles on the back and leaves that to sink in.

 

If Stiles is a message in technicolor bruises, who is he a message for? Not the sheriff; that would take extreme balls or extreme stupidity, and while Derek Hale has both in spades, John doubts that was his goal. And what is the message? From Stiles’ downcast eyes and the panic John’s caught in flashes when Stiles thought he wasn’t paying attention, he has a few ideas.

But the way he sees it, the message is twofold, with two intended recipients. The first is Stiles himself: _Don’t try to fight me. You’ll lose._ and _Keep your mouth shut._

But the second message is for someone else, too.

Lydia Martin.

Lydia Martin, who Stiles has been not-so-subtly crushing on for years. Lydia Martin, who has never had a reason to look twice at Stiles until last night, when she became his personal cheerleader. Last night, when her boyfriend Jackson Whittemore collapsed on the field.

It can't be easy dating Lydia Martin. She goes after the best, and when the best isn't her boyfriend, her loyalty switches in an instant. John's heard a little bit from his kid about how she kissed Scott after he got off the bench and started scoring like an MVP. Which is a two-for-one deal in implausible, except John has seen it with his own two eyes. Weedy, rail-thin, asthmatic Scott McCall is star player of the damn team these days, and he's making Coach proud. Hell, he got Whittemore demoted from captain to co-captain. If John's estimations are right, he's guessing that's about the time Whittemore started looking for the source of Scott's new talent. Short of wishing on a genie, there really aren't a lot of plausible explanations.

So Whittemore hunts down the source of Scott’s newfound strength, and Derek gets a new customer. Must be some time around here that Stiles figures out what Scott’s on. Well he’s not gonna narc on his best friend since kindergarten, so the lies start. The shiftiness. But then Scott’s grades start slipping, and he’s ditching Stiles for new friends (John’s seen them around town, miniature Hales in leather jackets and a swagger like they’ve got the whole county’s number), and now Stiles has a secret and no one to talk to.

The sonofabitch knew just who to prey on. Isaac Lahey. Abusive dad, there’s someone who could use some strength for once. And his father’s mysterious death doesn’t look that mysterious anymore. Suddenly Isaac is Hale’s right-hand man, and—come to think of it—Scott’s new BFF. There are others, too, who John doesn’t know as well. All teenagers Stiles’ age or younger. And right under the nose of the county sheriff.

So how did Stiles get hurt? The way John sees it, Jackson’s death was the tipping point for his kid. The danger finally got real. He wanted out, and he wanted Scott out with him. Well, Hale couldn’t have that, could he. He’s got to make Stiles a walking, talking example of what happens when you don’t fall in line. And just in case Whittemore's death has shaken his girl into talking, there's a message in black and blue to keep her quiet. And that’s not a lesson you soon forget.

So Stiles comes home with some bullcrap story about the other team, but he’s scared. He wants to tell. He wants his dad to take care of it. But he can’t be the one to tell him.

John has to figure it out all by himself.

Hale’s a pro at this, John realizes. In only a few months, he’s set up his own little teenage crime ring. If John presses him, he’ll destroy every ounce of evidence and get out of town for another six years at least. Besides, he’s too young to be top rung. Even if he got into this as a kid, he has to be someone’s protegé. Can’t be family; the last of his was halved and buried months ago. Has to be someone with connections, someone who can pull strings if things get messy. Someone who hasn’t been in this county—hell, this _state_ —for decades, but suddenly shows up for—

For his daughter’s funeral.

And with that, the last piece falls into place.

Well, no. What John has is a very sensational piece of fiction and not a bit of proof to back it up.

But he’s got a couple of ideas about how to find some.

 

John's stomach rumbles. He eyes the clock, regrets skipping breakfast.

"I'm not sure I see grounds," Judge Harper says as John shoulder-ears the phone and digs through his desk drawers for the snack bar he's almost certain he left there that one time. He stops fussing and double-checks today's findings.

"I've got three separate eyewitnesses saying he took a group of teenagers to a rave, Your Honor," John says. "Ever since Derek Hale turned up in town, two of those same teenagers have dropped out of school, and are in fact now missing. Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd III, neither a day above sixteen, and no one I've spoken to has seen them since the game. And I can't find a single person in town who has an answer for how an unemployed orphan in his twenties can afford a 2010 Camaro and a two-floor bachelor pad."

"I'll consider it, Sheriff," Judge Harper says, but John holds back his gratitude when she adds, "But the Hales were an old, respected family in this town, and the Argents still are, despite recent developments. I'd tread carefully if I were you."

"I appreciate it," he says, and waits till the judge has hung up before sitting back in his chair and letting out a long breath.

Derek Hale is gonna go away for a long, long time, and Gerard Argent along with him. John's gonna make damn sure of it.

Nobody uses his kid as a goddamn message.


	2. compassion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jackson Whittemore's body goes missing, John stops sidestepping and goes after the source.

When Jackson Whittemore's body goes missing, John stops sidestepping and goes after the source.

He finds Derek Hale in bad shape, leaning against a metal support beam of some empty warehouse, half-empty bottle of whiskey propped between his legs like it's all he's got left and he's guarding it with his life. He stinks of drink and yet strikes John somehow as the soberest drunk he's ever seen.

He does seem beaten down, though; John chooses to take that as a good sign, an easy win. Hell, maybe this is a white flag. Maybe Hale wants out as bad as Stiles does, only he's in so deep the only roads left are jail or deeper to hell. For a moment, John almost feels a brief flash of sympathy for him. He can't have been older than Stiles is now when he got caught up in this. Entire family burned away except for a comatose uncle and a sister who was barely coping herself, nowhere to go, the whole world on its head and not even a body to bury. Hell, a life like that, who wouldn't turn to drugs and crime?

John knows the slippery slope as well as anyone. He's straight-laced and dependable now, he has to be for his kid, but he was a teenager once too, as much as Stiles may never believe it. He'd had his own rough patch, his own fallout with his well-meaning but confused parents, before straightening out and becoming a husband, father, deputy, sheriff.

Maybe John's been looking at this all wrong. Derek's not some sophisticated crime boss. He's a kid in over his head, with no one who gives enough of a shit to pull him out. Threats might work, sure, a gamble that ends, best case scenario, with a confession or a long, drawn out court case, but now John's thinking that if he works this right, he can play it another way.

Compassion.

John can bet Hale will be a hell of a lot more thrown by someone giving a damn about him than by one more hard-ass calling his bluff. Maybe even thrown enough to turn witness against his boss. John can offer him a deal. Immunity, or a lighter sentence, something. He's got no reason to protect the guy above him over saving his own skin. Derek Hale may be reckless and just plain stupid at times, but he's not suicidal.

So instead of cuffing him and shoving him into the patrol car for the second time in months, John sits down next to Derek like he's just another guy trying to get wasted against a pillar.

Derek startles at his approach, stiffens. His brow creases when John takes a seat gingerly beside him. “Sheriff?”

“Terrible, what happened to Erica Reyes,” John says conversationally. Derek's face goes blank, or what John used to think was blank. Now he's got a feeling this is Hale's take on a poker face.

“I don't—” Hale says, but his whole body contradicts him, eyes large and panicked, nostrils flaring. Far from an ice-cold pro. “Have you—What do you mean?”

“We found her body, Derek,” John lies.

Derek inhales sharply; his fingers find the bottleneck blind. “Why would you—You're lying.”

Damn. This kid may be sharper than John gives him credit for.

“Seems to happen a lot these days,” John says. “Awful lot of bloodshed for such a small county. You know, I never really bought that story. Your sister. See, I'm told it was an animal attack, but I've yet to meet an animal that could cut a girl clean in half. Almost surgical, really. You know any animals like that?”

Derek's blinking hard by now, sweat beading in the hollow of his throat, the bottle shaking in his fist, contents sloshing slightly.

“I think you're in over your head, Derek,” John says carefully. “I think you've been struggling for a long, long time, and you're out of options, and you think there's only one way this can end.”

Derek holds his gaze, eyes dark with something John identifies as silent agreement. “I—” Derek says. “Sheriff—”

“And maybe you're right,” John continues. “But it's not just you anymore. You had to use kids. Damaged kids, lonely kids, needy kids, kids with asthma and epilepsy and abusive parents and a compulsive need to be the best. Why'd you go after kids, Derek?”

Derek swallows hard. “I—” he says, and then he stares at the bottle trembling in his sweaty palm like it's gonna feed him an answer. “It wasn't like that.” The line rings hollow, like even Derek doesn't believe it.

“See, the way I see it, you got into this as a kid,” John says. “It's all you know, really. Second nature to copy what you're taught, I get that. And I think I can make a judge get it too.”

Derek's face goes blank again. “A judge.” This doesn't feel like fear as much as confusion.

Can he really be that deep in, that indoctrinated, that he doesn't understand how royally screwed he is? John's gonna hold out a panacea, and Derek Hale's gonna stare right back at him and refuse, because he doesn't even understand why he would want it.

“Do you understand the legal implications of what you're doing, Derek?” John watches him carefully. “The court doesn't take kindly to people taking advantage of kids. I think that's an understatement. And after what happened to Stiles—”

“What?” Derek's tone goes suddenly, incredibly sharp. He really doesn't sound like he's lying. He sounds worried. Maybe even a little panicked. His fist is tight enough around the glass bottle to shatter it. “What happened to Stiles?”

“You don't know?” John finds it hard to believe. And yet he does believe it. Derek's nostrils are flaring, he's sniffing like he's near tears for god's sakes.

“Tell me what happened,” he demands, and suddenly John sees the man who convinced a group of teenagers that he could make it all better. But then he's gone again, retreated behind a face so desperate it almost hurts to look at him. “Please.”

“What's your connection to my son?” John asks. Derek squeezes his eyes shut, presses his lips together, opens his eyes and breathes. “I... We... He's helped me out a few times.”

John's brow jumps in disbelief. “He's _helped_ you?”

Derek winces. “I... Yes.”

“And you didn't by any chance repay him by beating him black and blue after the game last night, did you?”

The bottle shatters in Derek's fist.

“No,” he says, seemingly uninterested in the broken glass digging into his skin and the whiskey slopping through the shards and puddling on the ground around him. John moves slightly sideways to avoid the spatter. “Is he—” Derek cuts off, restarts. “How is he?”

“Are you sure you don't want to get a little cleaned up?”

“It's fine,” Derek snaps. “I'm fine. How is he?”

“You're bleeding,” John points out. It's not a life-threatening wound, but it's a nasty nick, and there's bound to be more damage if Derek keeps sitting where he's sitting. John stands up. “We're getting that looked at.”

“I'm _fine_ ,” Derek insists, shoving his bleeding hand into the pocket of his ever-present leather jacket, reminding John, in some strange way, of his own kid protesting and pushing him away. Yeah, well, John's always had a stubborn streak. Hell, it's where Stiles gets his.

“Maybe you don't like taking care of yourself, or maybe you've got some macho reputation to uphold, I don't care,” John says. “You're getting checked out by a doctor, and I'm going to be right there with you. Are we clear?”

“I don't—” Derek is clearly searching for a way out of this one. What his damage is with doctors, John doesn't know. And he doesn't care. Derek gives up, stands up, shoulders slumping. “Yes, sir,” he says, which—which is unexpected, to say the least. “But I'm a quick healer, and it's just a scratch.”

“Yeah, well, call me overprotective,” John says without thinking. Derek goes still, face blank again, but John's getting the hang of this. This one's closest to startled skepticism and something impossibly vulnerable John can't identify. And then it clicks. “I won't force you into a hospital, alright, I get how those tests—But I've got a, a friend, Melissa, she's a doctor. She'll take a look at the hand off the record, as a favor.”

“A favor,” Derek repeats.

John nods. “Don't ask me why I'm helpin' you, 'cause I'm not quite sure myself. Maybe I think you can fix this if someone just gave you the chance. Maybe I think that deep down, you want to take Gerard Argent down as bad as I do.”

Derek's eyes go almost red in the dark, John thinks, but it must be a trick of the light, a reflection or something, or a hallucination maybe, because it's gone in a moment, maybe was never there at all. “You want me to help you take down Gerard Argent?” Derek asks, close to breathless, and John thinks the stillness of his face is closer now to bloodlust.

“It's an option I'm weighing,” John says carefully. “Is that something you'd consider?”

Derek nods, once, twice, three times.

“Absolutely,” he says, like he doesn't even have to weigh the risks before making up his mind. He's half-smiling, too, a sharp feral grin that looks disturbingly comfortable on his lips. “What do you want me to do?”


	3. tattoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mangled and mutilated body of Erica Reyes turns up less than a week after John and Derek’s heart-to-heart, marked with a sharp variation of Derek’s tattoo, and that’s when John’s theory takes on a whole new dimension.

The mangled and mutilated body of Erica Reyes turns up less than a week after John and Derek’s heart-to-heart, marked with a sharp variation of Derek’s tattoo, and that’s when John’s theory takes on a whole new dimension.

There’s more than one supplier in town.

This one’s particularly bloodthirsty, and doesn’t seem to differentiate between competition and fifteen year old girls. When the ME comes back with “animal attack” as the cause of death, John sucks down a long breath of air and very carefully doesn’t call the man a moron.

Then he finds Derek Hale.

 

“Tell me about your tattoo,” he says without introduction. Derek’s nostrils flare like a startled horse, an unusual habit of his that John is almost getting used to. This time Derek is lurking like a less-than-predatory predator cliché outside the high school beside his Camaro, which is shinier than it’s ever been. John has a sudden mental image of Derek Hale washing, waxing and polishing his car in some extensive, fervent, almost religious daily ritual.

“What happened?” Derek asks. He’s already tensed, hands curled into fists and dug deep in the pockets of his jacket. John guesses the bad news must be all over his face. It’s not every day he stands over the body of a young girl and watches the so-called expert label COD a fucking _animal attack_. It’s not every day, but it happens too damn often in this county. It’s enough to make you lose hope in the law. Thing is, John _is_ the law, and he’ll be damned if he lets it end there.

“Is someone—” But Derek’s face is already dark, his fists are already trembling hard enough to vibrate his pockets, and he already looks like Zeke Reyes did hours ago when John sat him down and gave him the horrible news. So who is the nonchalance act for? He’s not pulling it off, in any case. He knew John was fishing when he said they’d found Erica Reyes’ body not two days ago, but he seems to know just as undoubtedly now that something is very, very wrong, so John’s gotta wonder what he knows, and how.

“Erica Reyes turned up,” John says, and Derek closes his eyes and breathes deep, almost like he’s praying, almost like he’s trying not to explode, before he has any reason to know what John meant by that. Maybe John just smells like death. (Julie had a friend who swore he could sense auras. John had always been a skeptic about that sort of thing, and here was some guy with a ridiculous name who liked Julie just a little too much, leaning in just a little too close and sniffing her skin like he was doing a line up her neck, whispering in her ear that she smelled like cinnamon and citrus and then leaning over to John, who reared back, and laughing, saying, “That’s alright. I can smell your jealousy from here.”

The thing is, Julie _had_ smelled like cinnamon and citrus. John had never noticed before, and after that, he couldn’t stop noticing. But the douche also smelled cancer—how do you _smell_ _cancer_ , for Christ’s sake?—months before there was even a blip of anything on any test. John’s never quite managed to shake the chill that came with staring down the picture of the thing growing in his wife's brain and knowing fucking _Deucalion_ had _sensed_ it somehow.)

“You seen her at all this past week?” John says, pushing that distracting thought out of his head. Stubbornness isn’t the only thing Stiles inherited from his old man.

“Not since—” Derek looks stricken, covered with a very thin layer of blasé. “She left before the game. Things were heating up, and I—She and Boyd decided to try and find—to try and find a different pack.” _Pack_. Is that the new slang for “drug pushing gang”? It’s been a long while since John attempted to score any illegal drugs himself, so he can’t be blamed for not knowing the new lingo.

Jesus, he’s getting old.

“’Boyd’ would be Vernon Boyd III, age fifteen?” John clarifies. The other missing kid. Well, the only missing kid. Erica Reyes sure isn’t missing anymore.

Derek nods.

“And you just let them go,” John says flatly. That can’t be true, can it? Even the most incompetent drug pusher has to maintain some semblance of control. Just letting them go makes no sense. Why not just hand-deliver them to your competition, and give them goodie bags to take with them as souvenirs while you’re at it? As much as John thinks he gets Derek, as much as the Derek he’s come to know doesn’t strike him as a domineering, violent, homicidal drug pusher, he can’t be sure “decided to try to find a new pack” isn’t a clever euphemism for “ran into my knife ten times.” Kind of like when John lost his badge less than two weeks ago. There wasn't a firing, oh no. More like a very gentle suggestion that maybe John could use some time off, mixed with an expression that made it clear that it wasn't a suggestion. John didn't need to have lived with a body language expert for nearly half his life to figure that one out. 'Course, nothing slaps a badge back on your chest quicker than half the department getting massacred in a way that has just about everyone still scratching their heads and coming up with nothing but a lot of unanswerable questions.

But Derek stares down miserably at the pavement, and a wave of that strange sympathy for the kid rises in John’s chest again.

“I didn’t—I thought—They’re just children,” Derek says quietly. “They’re just children. My sister would never have chosen children, and my father—” He cuts off sharply, blinks like he’s got something stuck in his eye real bad. He restarts just as John opens his mouth to break the silence. “But I was—” Derek glares at the ground. “I panicked.”

“Your father,” John repeats. Holy crap. “How long have you been doing this?”

“I was born this way.” Derek stops slumping, draws himself up to his full height, and frowns at John, brows drawn together. “How much do you know about this stuff?”

Almost nothing, apparently. The entire Hale family have been doing this since Derek was born, probably before that, and John never had a clue.

So how does Gerard Argent fit into it all?

“Gerard’s not your boss, is he,” John says. It’s suddenly impossibly clear. “He’s your competition.”

It all makes sense now, those few missing pieces. Derek’s enthusiasm to bring down Gerard Argent isn’t about saving his own hide at all.

It’s about revenge.

Derek’s brows furrow in confusion. “You thought Gerard Argent was my boss _,_ ” he says flatly.

“Big kahuna. Head honcho,” John supplies, nodding. Then, remembering what Derek called his gang, he adds, “Ah… pack leader.”

Derek looks positively wounded at the thought. “He’s not the Alpha. _I’m_ the Alpha.”

Alpha. As in the Greek letter A, as in… as in head of the pack. The dog pack. Of course. Which means…

“You’re top rung,” John says dubiously.

“Well there isn’t anybody else left!” Derek explodes, then cringes. “Sorry,” he says, and then his voice goes low and dark and bitter. “I just… I wasn’t supposed to be. That’s not—My sister, yeah, everyone thought… And my _father—_ ” His voice wavers again. “But I’m the only one left.”

“Well then why don’t you just quit?” John asks. “Get a job, try to live a normal life. Maybe get a girlfriend—” Derek flinches. “Boyfriend?”

“I can’t _quit_ ,” Derek says, like John’s an idiot. It’s the tone John expected from the moment he cuffed him and took him in for questioning, so it shouldn’t throw him at all. But it does. “This isn’t a _job_ ,” Derek says fiercely. “This is who I am. It’s all I’ve ever been.” But then, for all his passion, he gets that  look, that same dark hopeless look John has seen one too many times on Derek’s face, on his own kid’s face. “This is all I have left.” He gets a little lost somewhere far away at that, and there it is again, that flash of red in his eyes, a reflection of a fire John can’t see.

Derek’s so damn sure he’s stuck with this, he’s gonna follow it right down to hell. Because it’s not a job. It’s an identity. It’s not about drugs to him, not about power or perversion. John had it all wrong.

It’s about family. It’s the very last thing Derek Hale has left of his family.

But it sure as hell isn’t all he has left.

“You’ve got a car,” John says, tapping the glossy paint and fighting the compulsion to clean off the dull prints his fingers leave on the otherwise spotless surface. “You’ve got your life. You’ve got me,” he adds, surprising even himself, but no one more than Derek, who looks like he’s been hit on the back of the head with a large blunt object, eyes wide and startled, mouth frozen just slightly open.

“Say that again,” Derek demands when he comes back down to earth. His nostrils are flaring once again, his brows drawn together.

“You’ve got me,” John repeats. Derek’s frown grows deeper. “Something wrong with that?”

“You’re not lying,” Derek says. He’s shaking ever so slightly. Holy crap and goddammit. How horrible is this kid’s life that a simple _You’ve got me_ affects him like one of Julie’s best hugs?

However bad it is, John doesn’t know how to handle it, so he dodges.

He whistles. “That’s impressive, that mental lie detector you’ve got,” he says, instead of addressing how impossibly vulnerable Derek Hale looks in front of him right now. Derek regains some of his composure, nods, says, “Laura taught me. After…” The fire, John assumes. Yeah, that’s a handy trick to know if you’re a teenage drug dealer who just lost nearly all of your family in a very suspicious “accident.” He also notices, while trying not to make too much of it, that this is the first time he’s heard Derek refer to his sister by name.

John’s gotten off track again, and Derek gets them both back to the point by prompting, “What happened to Erica?” First name basis, real concern. Is this kid using the drugs to craft a new family, replace the one he lost? Aw, hell, John’s never been more of a bleeding heart than he is when he’s dissecting the psyche of Derek Hale. Fucking slideshows of abused puppies to that one Sara McLachlan song don’t get the violins playing in his head like this kid’s back-story does. If John got this attached to every case he’s worked, he’d be rocking back and forth in a corner somewhere. He needs to snap out of it. Yeah, it’s pretty goddamn tragic, but there’s no point wallowing if John can’t help him. And if he can help him, he’s better off doing that than playing shrink. All of this is just a distraction again.

“Some runners tripped over a body smack in the middle of woods,” he says, maybe a little bit too harshly. “Killer did a messy job hiding it or maybe didn’t try to hide it at all. Seems like some kind of wild animal got to it before the runners did.” He leaves out the ME’s bullshit COD. He figures Derek’s heard enough about “accidents” and “animal attacks” taking out his family. “She was in pretty bad shape, but her mom made the ID. She’s the one who noticed this.” He takes a ticket from his pocket, and turns it over it to show Derek the odd, angular shape he’s sketched on the back. “This mean anything to you?”

Derek doesn’t gasp or pale dramatically. He just gives one short, sharp nod and says, without hesitation, “That’s the mark of the Alpha pack.”


	4. origins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The Alpha pack,” John repeats, looking at the symbol again. "What's that?"

“The Alpha pack,” John repeats, looking at the symbol again. "What's that?"

Fuck, this is even bigger than he thought. Okay, Alphas, those are the kingpins, and packs, those are their gangs, which means an Alpha pack... an Alpha pack is a union for drug lords, basically. The heads of the smaller gangs get together and—

No, that's ridiculous. They're _gangs_. With the competition between pushers, there's gang wars and murder, not getting together to exchange recipes and discuss _Pride and Prejudice_. John doubts they're all as cuddly and harmless as Derek Hale. Hell, he's still not sure how that works, Derek just letting those kids run to the competition. And if the Alpha pack is a conglomerate of crime bosses, why isn't Derek a member? Okay, he pretty much answered his own question there. Forget family legacy. Derek Hale doesn't have the balls to roll with the big dogs—and John is sure all of his slang is all laughably wrong and is once again glad he isn't sharing his discoveries with his kid just yet—so they're swooping in to mock him. Taking what little he has and burning it like the second coming of Kate Argent.

That was another piece that never fit his old theory. If Gerard's Derek's boss, why would his daughter kill off probably half his workforce? But Gerard's not Derek's boss. He's his competition. And when it came to taking down the competition, his daughter got creative. Why go through the trouble of subtlety when you can just twist enough arms to make the experts label it an accident?

“Uh,” Derek says nervously, “I've never actually—I'm not good at the Telling,” he says. His ears blush pink. John is definitely not imagining that.

“Give it a shot,” John encourages. “I don't need style, just content.”

“Right,” Derek says, nodding a couple times in a row. “But, I mean, I might—Laura had to tell me the end. The real end. I wasn't supposed to be Alpha, so I got, uh—”

“The abridged version,” John guesses. Derek nods again. Jesus, the kid's got stage fright. He's like a fucking bobble-head on the dashboard of a speeding car.

“Just take a stab at it,” John tries again. “How's it start?”

“Right,” Derek repeats, like he's psyching himself up. “Okay. Well, you're really supposed to—” But he drops off, can't even meet John's eye. “It's like a ceremony,” he mumbles to the ground. “You're not supposed to just Tell leaning against a car in front of a high school.”

“Okay,” John says, only slightly impatiently. “How are you supposed to tell, then?”

“Well, the Alpha—Me, I guess,” he seems to just realize, before picking up his thought again. “The Alpha is supposed to sit, uh, on a kind of—Forget it. And there's—It's very—I'm not gonna do it right.”

“Derek,” John says carefully, trying not to snap. “It's alright. I'm not expecting _Chicago_ the musical. Just spit it out.”

Derek grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and then says: “Uh...”

_First, there was darkness. And then, the moon._

_And in the light of the moon, there appeared a wolf._

_And with it, a pack._

_Howling, howling in the night._

“Hold on, hold on,” John interrupts. Derek gives him a look like he's talking in church and Derek is the goddamn Pope. “Where'd the wolf come from?”

“I don't know,” Derek says, looking frustrated. “I didn't—I'm just Telling it how my father Told it to me, okay? Sheriff,” he tacks on at John's warning look, because at the end of the day, John won't have drug dealers getting defensive at him. He's sticking his neck out, he doesn't need to do that. Hell, he can get in a lot of trouble for it. But he's giving the kid a chance to open up and untangle himself from this mess, so he's sure as hell not looking to get a cocky asshole who thinks he can walk all over him in return.

“A'right, fine,” John says amiably. This “telling” isn't a list of family secrets. It's a ghost story, folklore. John's not big on any of that. He likes straightforward, logical. Man in the sky granting wishes doesn't exactly fit that. Neither does wolves popping out of nowhere. That's his son's venue of choice, with that imagination and all those hours building magical worlds on his computer. John prefers the practical. But fine. “Go on.”

“I really think I should start aga—” At John's look, Derek bites down on the last word hard, grits his teeth. “Fine.”

_The first wolf’s eyes flashed red, and that wolf was called Alpha. The others’ eyes flashed blue, and they were called Betas._

“Wait a minute. Wait just a goddamn minute,” John interrupts again.

“What now?” Derek asks, looking absolutely miserable. John can bet this isn't the way the kid learned this fairy-tale, and he doesn't care.

“That eye thing, that's not possible,” John says. He knows it's not possible. Except he's seen it with his own two eyes. More than once now.

Derek's eyes flash red.

John points. “There!” he shouts. “What the hell is that?” It's unsettling is what it is.

“What?” Derek says. John blinks, squints slightly.

Derek's eyes are back to their normal color of every fuckin color in the rainbow. There's a word for that, it's just escaping John right now. He'll probably think of it in a week, when it's even less relevant.

“What are you talking about?” Derek asks, frowning.

John shakes his head. He's losin' it, that's the only thing that makes sense. His father had Charles Bonnet syndrome, so he vaguely knows how this stuff works. The brain needs stimuli, and if there isn't any, it makes some up. Shut your eyes long enough, you start seeing things in the dark.

So John's brain is just making stuff up. Great. That's just great. He can just hand in his badge now and call it a day.

“Forget it,” he says wearily. “Keep going.”

Derek huffs out an exasperated breath and picks up where he left off.

_In the morning, the wolves were gone. In their place, men._

Of course, John thinks. This is evolution, with a dog pack twist. This metaphor is nothing if not consistent. Some of the storytelling is lazy, yeah, but they sure know how to stick to a theme.

_But some men could not find peace. They refused to keep to pack order. They insisted on chaos. So they ran. Their eyes flashed yellow, and they were called Omegas._

_By night, the forest floor was littered with their bodies. The betas buried their dead, and their Alpha gathered them and spoke._

“ _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”_

_This is the curse of the Omega, and the blessing of pack._

Yeah, yeah, 'Stick with the group, or we'll kill you.' This is some downright religious crap right here. John's never heard of a gang with an actual mythology attached. And the rituals, they doesn't sound typical either.

Maybe John's got it all wrong.

_But as summer began and the days got longer, the men began to fear the dark. They forgot they were wolves, and they built camps and hid in them when the moon came out. They prayed to gods to keep them safe from the dangerous wolves._

_And the Alpha said, “Leave us, then, and fill yourself with stories. Forget us, and live in ignorance of your heritage.”_

Heritage, huh? So this isn't just some metaphor, some fancy motivational speech. This is doctrine. A folksy, wolf-obsessed, lunatic Bible.

_And so it was that many men forgot. But wolf and man lived in peace despite man’s rejection and ignorance._

_Many moons waxed and waned, and still there was peace._

Many moons, really? John snarks in his head. This is nearing offensive, and it's long past ridiculous.

_And then there was the Bite._

Well that sounds big, whatever that is. Some kind of ceremony, maybe, like baptism, but with drugs? Maybe that's how the family kept the kids in line. Got them addicted. Dependent.

Son of a bitch.

Derek's certainly big enough to be on steroids, and—come to think of it—that can explain the shaking just as well as nerves can. The sniffing is a whole different ballgame, but Derek's too placid, too content to stand in place and have long conversations for it to be—But then there's the assumed invincibility. John saw a sharp glass shard stab straight through the palm of his hand, and he didn't even flinch.

 _A reminder to those men who had forgotten their heritage,_ Derek goes on, unaware of John's inner monologue _. We gave the lucky few the gift of strength, of heightened senses, of knowledge and purpose._

_And our numbers grew._

_And then the men created fire._

Derek hisses, and his eyes flash red again. John rubs his eyes with his palm. That's it. First thing tomorrow, he's making an appointment with a doctor.

_Barbarians traveled out that night, carrying their fire. Still afraid of the dark, they fled when their torches went out._

_But they came back. They saw our shapes in the shadows, in the moon and firelight. And they were afraid._

_We howled, and they ran._

If the “wolves” are criminals, who are the “men?” Cops, maybe? Law enforcers. Good men and women, doing their jobs, trying to keep the place safe. Men and women like the ones massacred by Matt Daehler. And here's this bullcrap story, treating them like the bad guys. This isn't just some harmless legend, some two-bit _Twilight_ knock-off. It's propaganda.

_Then there were the stories by firelight, and the reckless explorers._

_And then, there were the hunters._

“Hunters, is that right?” John asks, reaching the end of his rope. “You ever consider that maybe they're trying to keep some order, trying to keep people safe? They're out every day tryin' to right the wrongs, giving their _lives_ —” There's a lump in John's throat. It's been less than two weeks since he lost—Hell, since he lost everyone. Those people were good people with families and lives and goals they weren't done working towards. Deputy Jacobs was _twenty-two_ , for Christ's sake. You wanna villainize those people, turn them into monsters? Go ahead. But John's not sticking around to listen to it.

Derek's staring at John like he's punched him in the stomach. He opens his mouth, probably to fire back some smart-ass retort, and closes it again, presses his lips together. His hands are curled into fists at his sides. Did he really think John was gonna join him in spitting at the law? Did he somehow miss the badge on John's chest? He's angry now, wounded, like the law's the source of his problems. His problems come from _his_ actions. His family was a crime family, another crime family wiped them off the map. John feels for the kid who got stuck in the middle up until the point where he grows up and picks a side. So Hale's made up his mind. What the hell is John thinking, trying to reason with this man? He's so far up his family's asses, he thinks this crap is his identity! He's _proud_ of it. He's so far gone he probably thinks John's proud of it too. Well, he's in for a rude awakening.

This isn't getting anywhere, John thinks, seething. None of this is helping anyone solve anything. John's not one step closer to finding the murderer of Erica Reyes, or Stiles' attacker, or any of it. Hell, who even says that a single thing Hale's said this entire time was true? And John, with his bleeding heart, buying every tremble and tear. Oh, Hale's good. He's got John wrapped around his little finger.

Not anymore.

“I'm getting back to work,” John snaps. Derek startles exaggeratedly. God, he's not even trying to be subtle anymore. Well cry me a fuckin' river. “I suggest you sort out your crap and have a good long think about how the hell you plan on keeping those kids safe from whatever's coming. If you ask me, we could use a couple extra hunters cleaning this place up.”

Hale's playing fragile again, but John rolls his eyes. He's not buying the trembling lip and furious blinking anymore. He leaves the man by his Camaro, still slump-shouldered and sniffling like he's going in for his Oscar moment. Well, John's not sticking around to see it.

He's not that much of an idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two kinds of Tellings: a general legend that's told over and over to Betas, and a more thorough one told to future Alphas, although some packs also tell it to Betas when they turn 17. It's their origin story and a kind of beginner's guide to the species. Obviously Derek got cut off before he could get around to the Alpha pack part, but it's instinct for him to think of the story rather than to go, "They're X, X, and X and they're here to do X" because of the elaborate way that it's been told to him over and over. Also, when he and Laura tried to make a treaty with a different pack in New York, he majorly embarrassed her by not knowing the second part of the Alpha pack history, and she really chewed him out for it, so he's not about to say it like it's some trivial data he's reading from a telephone book and risk fucking it up again. There's a kind of nostalgia tied into it too, because this story is a huge part of his childhood, which was obviously the best part of his life. So he might skip the ceremonies and bite off some quick explanation to Scott or Isaac, because he knows they'll just roll their eyes all the way through, but he actually started thinking John was a real ally since last time, so he wanted to do it right. Plus, there's power in the Telling, which is why there's such fanfare over it. It's more religious than historical or factual, frankly, and trying to summarize quickly is pretty much blasphemy. And no powerful Alpha would tolerate interuptions, and Derek's right- if for some reason they're forced to stop the Telling, the custom is to start all over from the beginning. It's kind of ridiculous, but most traditions look ridiculous to outsiders. *The More You Know rainbow*
> 
> (more minutae here: http://highwaytohoech.tumblr.com/post/44418818894/a-real-hero-minutae-origins-edition)


	5. alibi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's about three in the morning when John wakes to a violent thump and a scream from Stiles' room. He double-times up the stairs just in time to catch Isaac Lahey sprawled on his ass under Stiles' open window, his blood seeping into Stiles' nice blue carpet.

It's about three in the morning when John wakes to a violent thump and a scream from Stiles' room. He double-times up the stairs just in time to catch Isaac Lahey sprawled on his ass under Stiles' open window, his blood seeping into Stiles' nice blue carpet.

There's a lot to address in that sentence, but John goes with, “We have a door, you know. Commonly used for knocking, and then waiting for the person living in the house the door is generally attached to to answer it and decide whether to let you in or not.”

Stiles, though, gets to the heart of it by pointing out, “Dad, he's _bleeding_.”

Right, of course. John must have forgotten the part where intruders get free room and board if they injure themselves on the way in. He catches his breath, wonders when a flight of stairs started winding him, and resolves to get more exercise. The kind of job he has, he probably can't afford not to.

Bleeding teenager on his son's floor. Okay. He takes about a half a second to appreciate that the bleeding teenager is not _his_ teenager before snapping into action.

“Stiles, get the first aid kit,” he instructs, and Stiles takes off running to the bathroom. “Isaac—It's Isaac, right?” Isaac nods. “Okay, Isaac, don't move. Where are you hurt?”

“It's looks worse than it is,” Isaac says immediately. John tries not to sigh out loud. What is it with kids refusing to admit when they're hurt? 'Course, this one probably had more practice hiding his injuries than most. The thought worms its way into John's mind and gets comfortable, refusing to leave even as Stiles comes back with the kit and John pulls Isaac's blood-soaked shirt up to take a good look at the wound. He's no doctor but he took first aid along with everyone in the department and he knows those first few minutes are crucial. Once Isaac's stable, he'll call EMS or Melissa if Isaac's got Derek's aversion to hospitals. That's the kind of woman Melissa is; she wouldn't be bothered to get a call at three in the morning to patch up a bleeding teenager. Hell, she'd probably thank him.

Yeah, John's just gonna assume Isaac hates hospitals.

But Isaac grabs the edge of his shirt from John and pulls it back down. “I'm okay,” he says. Every kid John's dealt with in the past week is the same broken record. Clearly upset, clearly bleeding, and “okay.” Well, the front of this kid's shirt is actually damp with still-drying blood, so excuse John if he isn't buying the reassurances.

“It's alright,” he tries. “I'll be careful. I just wanna get a look at the wound. Stiles can bandage it up if you'd prefer that.” John looks at Stiles, who is unusually silent, considering how squeamish he used to get around gore. Even particularly violent movies would have him watching between his fingers and repeating, “Oh my god. Oh my _god_. Holy god that is fucked up. That is so fucked up. _Oh_ my god,” cringing all the way through. But now, Isaac's blood drying into a stiff, crusty, rust-red stain all the way through his carpet, his father suggesting he clean and bandage Isaac's wound, he just shrugs, accepting the job like it's nothing. John's not sure he wants to know when and how his kid got so casual around blood and bruises that he doesn't even need one “oh my god” to take the edge off.

“It's not—” Isaac pushes John's hand away again. His hand shakes. John takes a step back.

“Stiles, you wanna—”

Stiles shrugs and takes John's place by Isaac's side. “Where are you hurt?”

Isaac looks at Stiles, looks at John, looks at Stiles again. Of course. This is something to do with everything else that's been happening lately, and Isaac doesn't want John to know.

Or maybe he just doesn't want the sheriff to know.

And by the look of it, he's gonna bleed out if he doesn't let someone patch him up, pronto.

“It's a'right,” John says, putting his hands up in what he hopes is a comforting gesture and pointing to his chest. “There's no badge at three in the morning,” he says, praying the right words'll come to him, let these kids know he's in their corner. “I'm off duty. I'm just a dad tonight.” Something dark and vaguely guilty crosses Isaac's face at that. “I just wanna know how I can help.”

For a second, both boys stare at him, and John thinks they might actually just come out and say it.

Then Isaac says, “I really am fine, Sheriff,” and John's heart sinks. “I mean it,” Isaac continues. “It's not—I'm not bleeding.”

Yeah, okay, John is calling Melissa before he has to call a fucking coroner.

But Isaac looks at Stiles, at John, back at Stiles, and lifts up his shirt.

There's not a mark on him.

 

In the next thirty minutes, his hand rattling nervously against the kitchen table, Isaac attempts to give four different stories for how he came to be drenched in blood that apparently isn't his, and why he decided the logical next step was to climb the drainpipe, knock on Stiles' windowpane, and wait for the kid to let him in. First draft he was alone, and he found a wounded deer, and he tried to help it, and it bled to death all over him. That one falls to pieces as soon as John recaps in his warmest _Do I look like an idiot?_ tone, “You're saying you were out alone, taking your nightly walk through the woods where only yesterday the body of—” At Stiles' sharp flinch, he changes tacks. “Where a dead girl was found, and you found Bambi's mom.”

“Dad, c'mon. I think that sounds traumatizing enough without calling it _Bambi's mom_ ,” Stiles interjects before Isaac can respond. John sighs inwardly. Of course. Stiles probably knows all about where Isaac really was when he got all that blood all over him, and he's desperate to keep his old man in the dark. This is the kid's most common method of bluffing: stalling while he comes up with a better alibi.

Second draft has a lot more “uh”s than the first, which is almost never a good sign. “I mean, uh, ” Isaac says, looking nervous and guilty as hell, “I wasn't—I wanted to see,” he spits out finally, “where they found her. I wanted to—”

Now that sounds a hell of a lot closer to the truth, and if John doesn't already think so, Stiles' frantic eye-signals to his friend sure help tip him off. “And that's when I found the deer, you know,” Isaac lies—pretty obviously lies—and goes quiet, like that's all.

“Uh huh,” John says skeptically. “And if I, say, bagged and tested that shirt, the lab would agree that it's deer blood, right?”

“It was a dog,” Isaac says hurriedly. Okay, draft three, let's do this. “A big injured dog, and I—”

“Probably more like a wolf, actually,” Stiles interjects.

John closes his eyes and rubs his eyelids with his fingertips. “A wolf,” he repeats, and looks his kid dead-on. “Stiles, there haven't been any wolves in California in the past fifty years.” _C'mon, kiddo_ , he thinks, _just tell me the truth. Just this once. I know I'm close, just give me that extra nudge in the right direction_.

But they're not offering him a thing, so he keeps digging. “You knew Erica Reyes well?” he asks Isaac, and notices that Stiles shudders slightly at the mention of her name. There's something there, there's gotta be.

“She was in most of my classes,” Isaac admits, but even John knows there's more to it.

“She sat behind me in English, Math, and History for two years,” Stiles says, and he's not stalling. There's something in his voice, the kind of quiet sadness John last heard when he'd finally managed to mention missing Julie out loud. Getting drunk in front of his kid, that's A+ parenting for you. It's never gonna happen again. But Stiles hadn't had an ounce of sarcasm in him that night, just a wide-open stare and this sincerity like they were watching her die all over again. And it's all through him now for Erica Reyes. This wasn't just a classmate. This was, this was something bigger than that.

“What did the ME say?” Stiles asks. “What happened to her. What was it?”

John closes his eyes, keeps them shut for just a little bit longer than a standard blink.

“Animal attack,” he says wearily.

“But you don't think so,” Stiles says. John nods twice, then shakes his head and says, “I don't know what to think.”

Stiles is watching him intently, like he wants to crack this case wide open. And you know what? So does John. He'll take whatever guesses these kids have to offer. It's unconventional, but no more so than buddying up with the town drug dealer.

“There's somethin' tying all these crimes together,” he says, watching the kids out of the corner of his eye. “This girl, the trouble at the station, Laura Hale...” Stiles gives a start at the name, but nothing to suggest her death means anything to him the way Erica's clearly does. “I just can't put my finger on what it is.” And then he pulls out his theory. “Even if there are animal attacks involved, there's no way these things were accidents,” he says. “Someone's using animals somehow. Weaponizing 'em.” He doesn't miss the look between the kids at that. They know something. Maybe everything.

So how can he get them to spill?

“You know, I've been going down a couple different paths trying to work this out,” he says. “And I think I've got a pretty good handle on what's been going on in this town the past few months.”

Stiles' right leg is actually vibrating slightly.

“Yeah, I've had a couple interesting conversations with Derek Hale,” John says casually, and waits.

Stiles goes impossibly still.

“Who?” he chokes out. “Derek Hale? What's he have to do with anything? I mean, I barely know anything about him. Wasn't he cleared of all charges months ago? Or something, I don't even remember. I wasn't even really paying attention.”

“Cut the crap, Stiles,” John says. That's it. They're talking about this. He nods a couple times in a row, trying to convince himself that what he's about to do isn't the stupidest thing he's ever done. And then he looks at the blood on Isaac's shirt and the fading bruise on his son's cheek, and thinks of the way Stiles looked almost guilty at the mention of Erica Reyes' body, and takes the plunge.

“I talked to Derek Hale,” he says, heartbeat thumping loud in his ears. “He told me everything.”


	6. bluff

John holds his breath, watches his kid. Watches both kids. Stiles is still as a block of wood, but his eyes are everywhere, flickering for an exit, a way out. Isaac is very carefully examining his fingernails, wide-eyed and tensed like he's ready to run.

“Everything,” Stiles repeats. His fingers start a drum solo against his thighs.

“There are a couple of things he didn't cover.” John admits. “Like the part about Isaac climbing through your window at three in the morning.”

Isaac cringes and looks away.

Crap. Crap, that's not—John doesn't want to scare the kid, he doesn't—He just wants some straight answers, goddamnit.

“It's alright,” he tries to calm Isaac. “I'm not mad. I'm just—"

He looks his kid in the eye, goes for broke.

"I'm tired, Stiles. I'm just tired of all of this. I want to know what's going on with you. I want to know exactly who we're dealing with, exactly what kind of power they've got behind them. And I want us to start talking again. I want you to stop lying to me. I know you think you've got it all figured out and I'm best kept in the dark, but you're wrong. I'm the sheriff, Stiles. That may not mean anything to you, but it means something to me. It means I'm not just sitting down and watching my blood pressure while people die. While you and Scott and Isaac and the rest of your classmates get hurt. I'm not gonna do that. So I need you to be honest with me, kiddo. I need you to tell me all the places I've got something wrong, cuz I'm sure Derek didn't cover all of it, but I'm stumbling around like a moron, probably tripping all kinds of alarms I don't even know about, and I need to know the truth.”

Stiles tries one more dodge, guilt glittering in his eyes.

“What's there to tell?” he asks conversationally. “I don't know Derek. I don't even know _a_ Derek. Neither of us do.” Derek, not Derek Hale, John notices. First name only. Which means he's familiar, a friend maybe. Well that turns John's theory on it's head. Say Derek isn't lying, say he really is top rung and he really did let Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd go because they were kids and he felt guilty. Say he really is a soft-shell, a sheep in wolf's clothing, say the act wasn't an act and John had it more right the first time. Who hurt Stiles? Who beat up his son, and why? And if Derek's so willing to let kids go, why isn't Stiles going?

“Derek Hale,” John says. “He consider both of you part of his _pack_?”

Stiles goes pale, has to take a couple deep breaths to steady himself. His voice is quiet when he says, after a couple seconds deliberation, “I don’t know.”

“You consider yourselves part of his pack?”

“Not really,” Stiles says. “Scott doesn’t, so—” He stops, says, “Hey, let me get you a drink and we’ll—“

“I’m not going to get drunk in front of my son and his friend at four in the morning,” John says, and Stiles deflates with a nod and a palm to cap the back of his slightly fuzzy hair—another reminder, however slight, that his kid’s growing, changing, not the buzzcut kid comparing shaved heads with his mom—

John shakes off the image, gets back to the matter at hand. That was important, whatever Stiles just said. A slip. He didn’t want his dad knowing Scott _wasn’t_ part of Derek’s gang.

Huh.

Say Derek’s just letting people go. Training em up and letting them take off, no consequences. Breeding his own competition. But he doesn’t see it like that, he sees them as kids who should get out while they can. Should have the option, anyway.

So why are these kids still hiding? Still lying? Is it some kind of loyalty? Or is it some kind of exchange package—You let me go, I’ll keep your secrets?

But Stiles isn’t sure if he’s part of Derek’s pack. He knows Scott isn’t, so what’s keeping him connected, allied with Derek?

Unless Scott’s allied with something even worse, and Stiles is trying to fight fire with fire.

Scott doesn't want to leave, John thinks. Stiles won't leave without Scott, but Scott's happy. He's a sports star, he's popular, and with Whittemore gone he's captain of the lacrosse team. He's got everything he's never had. Why would he want out?

Now that John thinks about it, Scott wasn't in that game. Scott wasn't on the field at all. He was on the bench with Isaac, and then he was—Where the hell was he?

Hell, what if Stiles saw Whittemore go down, got scared, tried to pull Scott off that road, and Scott snapped? Those kind of drugs can make people do crazy things, and there's no way in hell Stiles would ever spill that secret to his dad. Scott's his best friend, and he'd be worried John would split the two up. But he'd be pissed off, definitely. He'd ignore Scott's calls, start spending time with new friends. He'd take out his frustrations on Lydia Martin for not trying to reach Whittemore the way he's trying to reach Scott. But where does Derek fit into this? Why would Stiles ever help Derek Hale out?

So maybe Derek offers him an out and he takes it to please Stiles. Stiles is relieved, up till he realizes whatever Scott’s using as a substitute is even worse. And Derek, Derek with his surprising sympathy, with his expertise on the issue, he’s actually an ally in helping Scott out of this.

But where do Erica Reyes and Vernon Boyd come in? Where does Isaac stand? And who the hell was stupid enough to hit the sheriff’s kid hard enough to leave knuckleprints?

“Enough bullshit, kiddo,” John says, drawing a line in the sand. “Tell me the truth. That night, after the game, that was Gerard Argent, wasn't it.”

Stiles gets real quiet after all that.

And then Isaac looks at his friend, and he makes a decision.

He nods just as John's radio goes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAHAHA I FINALLY UPDATED. I got stuck on a scene in between this chapter and the next and then just stared at it for a long while before finally realizing it was unnecessary. Sorry for the extreme ridiculous delay.
> 
>  


	7. 927D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When John finds him, he’s spread-eagle on the forest floor, blood bubbling from three deep tunnels carved into his neck and shoulder.

When John finds him, he’s spread-eagle on the forest floor, blood bubbling from three deep tunnels carved into his neck and shoulder. He’s both neater and messier than Erica Reyes: Where she had blood and bruises and dark sloppy wounds, Vernon Boyd has exposed bone and missing fingertips.

He’s caked in blood, not moving, eyes closed, and John's sure he must be long cold, but when he kneels beside him, the kid's skin is hot to the touch and he balks at the contact, lets out a hiss of breath, and opens his eyes.

They flash red.

John staggers back, watches Vernon Boyd gargle blood, writhing and seizing, and then tip sideways to vomit a spray of blood so dark it's almost black before collapsing again.

EMTs swarm the kid as John tosses Deputy Graeme the keys to get the space blanket out of the car. He’s absolutely sure he saw it this time, but he's also lightheaded and spots are dancing in front of his eyes even as he looks away, and he has bigger things to worry about. Vernon Boyd is alive. There’s a survivor of whatever the hell this is, and he might have all the answers if he can just make it out of this alive.

But he's also fifteen and he's so _young_ , and there’s tears in his eyes and pain contorting his face, sweat beading on his temple, on his upper lip and the hollow under his Adam’s apple. He’s still shivering with the blanket around him, and there are EMTs doing their thing all around him, so John just stands and paces, taking in the scene, until the kid’s loaded into the back of the ambulance, air mask over his nose and mouth, and John finally takes a long, long breath.

“Sheriff.”

He spins, finds Derek Hale just behind him, and curses for a full thirty seconds. Barely regaining his composure, he snaps, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“You found Boyd,” Derek says, eyes heavy with—fear? Guilt? John isn’t sure.

“We found something,” John allows, and Derek gives a tight nod and says, “Where did they take him?”

“The morgue,” John lies, and watches Derek’s face freeze for a split second before his brows draw together.

“Stop lying, Sheriff,” he says with some force. “You want me to take responsibility? I’m taking responsibility. Now tell me where he is. Please,” he adds, and it’s more courtesy than plea. John huffs.

“I can’t just let you interfere with this investiga—“

“I’m not planning to interfere,” Derek says evenly. “Boyd doesn’t have a lot of family. Less that keep in touch.” When Derek’s face softens slightly, John can’t quite convince himself it’s an act for his benefit. “He shouldn’t be alone like that,” Derek says. “I’m not perfect, but I’m pack. That still counts for something.”

“Pack,” John repeats.

“So’s Isaac,” Derek offers. “But it’s a school night.”

John’s brow is as high as it goes. “A school—” He shakes his head, huffs. “You’re a real comedian, huh?”

“I’m the closest thing he has to a guardian who gives a crap about him,” Derek says. “I know that probably doesn’t mean as much to you as what’s on a dotted line, but if you ask me, Sheriff? Family’s who you choose, not who you—”

 _Family_. “That right? He chose you?” John cuts in, skeptical. “It occur to you that people who choose you nine times out of ten end up dead?”

Derek flinches and turns to stone, jaw and fists clenched, eyes empty, and for a second John thinks Derek might take a swing at him. Then Derek bites out, “Get Isaac over there, then. He shouldn’t be alone.”

“Isaac is too—” Too young? Too scarred? Too busy conducting his own amateur investigation in the woods? John can’t pretend he can shield the kid from the horror of this. At the very least they're friends, tied up in the same mess. It's gotta hurt seeing everyone around you get knocked down like bowling pins. At least Vernon Boyd’s alive, he thinks, but he can’t help add, thinking back to the state of him, the gouged flesh and exposed bone, _For how long?_ And which is worse? Waiting at their side and watching them die slowly, their faces contorting to something unrecognizable, all wrong, too thin and sallow and pinched under the harsh hospital lights—or never getting to say goodbye at all?

“Isaac is all he’s got left,” Derek says simply, and John thinks of Erica's torn-up torso and the tears in Derek's eyes and nods. Nods again.

“Okay,” he says, and Derek watches him like he hardly dares to breathe. “Isaac’ll be better or worse with you there?”

Derek hesitates. Then he says, “Ask him.”

It’s a good answer.

John nods again. Again.

He pulls out his phone.

 

  
Derek's breathing gets harsher the closer they get to Vernon Boyd's room, and when John glances at him, he's actually trembling, gagging slightly like he can already taste the blood from here. He makes a point of stiffening when he sees John looking at him, sniffing sharply and regulating his breaths. John feels so turned around he doesn't know what to think. He can't figure out which part's the act and which part's the emotions Derek's trying to hide. In part the fact he's doing this favor for Derek means he does trust him, believe the broken looks and the unexpectedly exposed edges of him; in another, he tells himself, this is as much a test and a tactic as it always was, John watching living, breathing evidence and taking notes. It disturbs him that he can't just pick a position and stick with it, but better sure than stubborn and stupid.

The last couple of feet Derek practically skids down the waxed linoleum and shoves the door open, eyes wide, John quick beside him with hardly any need to catch his breath. Isaac's already standing by the bed, hand slightly outstretched just over Boyd’s bandages. He startles at the sound of them, spins to face them, and looks behind John. Derek stands in the doorway, staring at the both of them, lips pressed thin, brows drawn together, and he leans slightly against the door frame like he needs the support. Then he straightens, swallows hard, and John says, “What do you know about the Alpha pack?”

There’s no poetry this time. Derek’s practically snarling when he says, “That I’m gonna kill them. All of them.”

John believes him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 927D- Investigate possible dead body.


	8. insight

There’s no keeping Stiles out of that hospital room, so John doesn’t bother trying. He’s disturbingly quiet when he runs in, stops short when he sees Boyd; he stands like he’s frozen in place steps from the bed, and John lays a hand on his shoulder, pulls him close. Stiles is stiff and inconsolable in his father’s arms, keeps looking sideways until John turns around. That way there’s Isaac, folded up in a chair by the wall, looking sick, and just beside him is Derek, stoic, brows gathered, eyes still and focused, just watching the monitor beep.

It takes a few seconds for John to notice that Isaac’s left hand is rubbing up Derek’s spine, fingers curving over the back of Derek’s neck, and when he does, his throat closes up.

It doesn’t have to mean anything. Isaac protected his abusive father; this could be that all over again. But something—maybe the way that Derek just stares straight ahead at the beeping monitor, maybe the way Stiles doesn’t seem surprised—tells John it isn’t. All the weapons he’s been shoving at Derek for the past two days are like acid in his throat.

If someone talked to Stiles like that, he’d want to punch their lights out.

John wants to talk to the kids, wants to get the right answers instead of playing madlibs with bluffs and cruel accusations and watching the bodies stack up, but it’s nearly sunrise and they’ve gotta be exhausted. Hell, he’s exhausted. It’s Stiles who drags him home and forces him to get some shut-eye before his shift starts with that shuttered worried look that has John shutting his mouth and crawling into bed.

When he wakes up  couple hours later, Boyd’s been discharged.

  

“Discharged?” John repeats, arms folded, the mother of all skeptical looks on his face. “He was half-dead when he came here a couple of hours ago. Who the hell checked him out?”

“Uh,” the secretary says, checking the sheet. Sierra something. She’s new, bound to screw up a few times. “Hale.”

Derek Hale. Of course. John’s fallen for the con again. He seethes as quietly as he can until she says, “Yeah. Peter Hale.”

“Peter Hale,” John repeats. “Missing coma patient Peter Hale?”

She frowns at him, actually checks the list again like there’s a notation for vanishing burn victims. “Just—” he says wearily. “You wouldn’t know where he—No, of course not,” he answers himself at her blank look. He leaves a message for the good doc and makes a mental note to put out an APB for a man who, until this point, he hadn’t even considered.

So Peter Hale’s awake. He’s awake and walking around checking kids out of hospitals.

Or, much more likely, someone’s using his uncle’s name to pull off some kind of—

What if Isaac’s in on it?

Oh, wouldn’t that be something. Taking a page out of Derek Hale’s playbook, a wide-eyed innocent sweetheart who could use a bit of compassion—

Oh, John’s been thick. He’s been an absolute moron.

Derek has Isaac under his thumb. After “saving” the kid from his abusive father, he’s a fucking hero. Derek doesn’t need to hurt Isaac to get his help. The kid’s probably got enough Daddy issues to keep him doe-eyed and obedient at Charles Manson’s side, much less this white knight in black leather. But Boyd, Erica, he doesn’t have that kind of power of them. They take off. And maybe Derek was generous. Let them go without a fight because they’re kids who shouldn’t be in this life. Maybe he sees himself in them, and he gives them the out he never got to have. Go, be kids.

Ah, but they don’t want to be kids. They just want a better Alpha. A new pack. They’re running, but they’re still addicts and they’re not willing to give that up.

Well isn’t that a slap in the face to Derek. He tried to do something nice, the right thing, and what kind of gratitude does he get in return?

Maybe he watches, waits. Then he corners Erica. She tries to run, but he’s stronger than her. He’s got a knife but before he takes it out he just uses his fists. Bruises staining her skin purple, bruises like the ones on Stiles. She can’t even fight back. She just lies there while he tears her apart.

And then he turns he over, carves the Alpha pack’s symbol into her skin. See how her new pack likes her now.

He doesn’t bury her. He wants her to be found. Wants her death pinned on the Alpha pack. The perfect revenge.

But Boyd’s still out there. He gets away, or maybe Derek hadn’t found him yet. Maybe Derek had a good heavy drink after he tortured and killed Erica Reyes and found the sheriff standing over him. Bet that sobered him right up.

But John offered him compassion. A deal. He’s the biggest sucker in town and Derek plays the victim so well John’s practically ready to adopt him after one conversation. Derek shatters a bottle and John watches Melissa wash blood off his hands while Derek watches the water run pink for the second time that night. Watches the sheriff help him cover the evidence in bandages, disguise it under vulnerability and hope. Your county sheriff, ladies and gents.

But there are loose ends still. Boyd’s a witness. Even if Derek has Stiles and Scott too spooked to talk, Isaac under his thumb, Boyd is dangerous to him. More than ever.

So Derek found Boyd after that last conversation with the sheriff, cut him to pieces and left him for dead. But it wasn’t personal. It was covering his ass, that’s all. Doing his due dilligence. He barely tortured Boyd. It was a lazy job, and he left the kid for dead-

And then it hits John so suddenly his sharp inhale is close to a gasp.

Isaac.

Derek had Isaac do it. Hunt Vernon Boyd down, kill him. And Isaac did it. Followed orders, protected his new father. And he tumbled through Stiles’ window when he was done, shaky and horrified, covered in Vernon Boyd’s blood.

Holy crap.

But Isaac screwed up. Boyd’s alive, if barely. And Derek figures it out.

So he finds his old doormat the sheriff, and convinces John that it’s about family. About not wanting Boyd to be alone.

Christ, John fell for it. And when Derek played his trump card, had Isaac choose whether he should be there or not? He took a risk there. Isaac was shaken up after nearly killing Boyd. Shaken up enough to run to Stiles instead of running home to Derek. Shaken up enough to run to the sheriff’s house and very nearly tell John everything.

But he wanted Derek there at Boyd’s side to help him finish the job. To prove to his new father figure that he wanted to and could and would fix where he’d gone wrong.

Which means if Vernon Boyd's still alive, he's running out of time.

He calls the station, puts out APBs on Derek Hale and Isaac Lahey, and calls his son.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kind of see all of this so far taking place before 3.01, and the reveal being early third season, with the story then continuing until 3.24 along the arcs I have planned. Sorry if this bugs anyone, but I really can't see the plot fitting together any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://highwaytohoech.tumblr.com/)


End file.
